


Entomologia

by Nymphaeus



Series: SephirothWeek 2020 [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bugs & Insects, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Experimental Style, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Needles, POV Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), Pain, Panic Attacks, Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII)-centric, Sephiroth Appreciation Week 2020, Stream of Consciousness Elements, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphaeus/pseuds/Nymphaeus
Summary: Sephiroth Appreciation Week 2020 - Day 1: Specimen"Before he could find himself another exit, he instead found his eyes wandering over the peculiar choice of décor. On the wall hang a large wooden showcase and behind the glass, entrapped and on display, was a collection of tiny bodies, multilimbed and unmoving."or: Sephiroth attends a ShinRa social event and dissociates, hard.(Please, mind the tags. Although, all the gory elements are purely imagined.)
Series: SephirothWeek 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982950
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	Entomologia

**Author's Note:**

> Could it be me, for once trying to participate in a fandom event instead of just vaguely existing at the margins of the fandom doing my own thing?
> 
> Don't examine this too closely, I got inspired by pretty, dead bugs, even though I dislike them and by reading a lot of scholarship on body horror and the representation of pain in fiction. That's how this happened. It's an experiment in style and content, really.
> 
> In regards to the warnings: Nothing gets overtly graphic, but it is discriptive in the gore/torture elements.  
> I tried to cover the bases, but I might have missed something.  
> If you want to know about specifics, feel free to send me a message, or scroll down with your eyes closed to comment.

“Do I have to attend?”  
  
The envelope crumbled, as he clutched it between trembling fingers.  
  
“Your attendance is _highly_ appreciated, yes.”  
  
Why call it an invitation when it really is an order? Sephiroth didn’t ask.  
  
They had put him in a suit. More exactly, he had been provided with a suit. He had put it on himself. Specifically tailored for the occasion, it wouldn’t be worn a second time. What a waste. Delicate embroidery, hand-stitched, of course, silver-thread, matching his hair, of course, the needle work must have taken weeks, needles pricking fingers in the process of piercing ornaments onto the dark fabric.  
  
_Smile_ , he had been told. _Smile. Answer if asked. Be quiet if not, but nod, but politely. Feign interest if you must. Don't forget to laugh at the jokes.  
_  
Sephiroth had smiled politely. Answered if asked. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do more than force a twitch of his lips at the jokes. He had shaken a lot of hands as well, some sweaty against his own, others dry, all grasping at him. None noticed how he would rub his palm on the expensive fabric of his pants whenever he had been let go of.  
  
Greedy eyes were continuously fixed upon him, inescapably following him, no matter where he turned. Not that he had a chance to twist himself free. With the push of a firm hand on his back, or the pull of an unwelcome arm that had slipped uninvited under his, he was ushered from one person to the next. Everyone all too eager to thrust their praises unto him. _A brilliant move, yes, that last confrontation on the southern border. So proud. Those Wutai bastards._ Compliments upon compliments, upon him. _A genius, really. So proud._ _Just so proud_. If people would just stop patting him on the back. _And handsome, too, oh my_. His face burned, not from being flustered, his lips felt tense, close to cramping, from all the smiling. _A hero, truly. The war is as good as won._ Praises upon praises, upon ShinRa.  
  
Hard to take a compliment? What was hard was breathing under the steady assault of eyes and hands and praise. Until he couldn’t take it anymore. _Please excuse me, just a minute._ Something about air. Could they tell his facial muscles were so close to betraying him, faltering? One set of angry eyes bore into him. But no hand came grasping for his body to stop him. Good. Just no looking back. Someone was calling his name. He needed to get away. Just a for a second. Something about air. Pushing through the crowd. An elbow to his side. _Oh! Excuse me, I’m sorry, sir!_  
  
He didn’t know where to, when – faced with a wall. He hadn’t even realized, he had made it through to the other side of the room, only to find himself trapped anew. Before he could find himself another exit, he instead found his eyes wandering over the peculiar choice of décor.  
  
On the wall hang a large wooden showcase and behind the glass, entrapped and on display, was a collection of tiny bodies, multilimbed and unmoving. The myriad of shimmering and grotesque forms secured against an off-white background by metal pricks that had been driven through their midsections. They appeared dead.  
  
Sephiroth could see his reflection on the cold surface, suddenly feeling ill, his gaze drawn in, involuntarily – until he sees himself behind the glass – framed.  
  
His body rests against the ghastly background stained with residue of fluids – he doesn’t want to know. A chemical stench lays hot and thick in the air, burning in his airways as he draws in raspy breaths, shaking his body. Familiar. So familiar. The labs, he vaguely recalls and quickly reminds himself to forget.  
  
He is waiting. He knows what is to come next. He cannot move, for he is not allowed to. He has been told. _It’s going to be quick_. Tension spreads, his body tight, the smell makes his head spin. Nauseous, he can barely see, his vision is swimming. He knows what is to come.  
  
First one hand, secured to the plate, then the other. No need to rush. No need.  
  
_Aren’t you used to this by now? You’re down here so often.  
_  
Metal against his palm, only the smallest pinpoint of contact at first. Sharp tip teasing at his skin, idly threatening to breach the surface. _Hold still. It’s not going to hurt. A lot._ It doesn’t hurt – not until it is driven in, carefully, slowly, meticulously, tearing through tissue and ripping through sinews, crushing delicate bones in their way. Then it hurts a lot. His fingers are twitching and spasming around the intrusion, he can feel them move on their own accord, in between the searing white pain. He wants to scream and thrash about – unable to – it is not the pins keeping him in place.  
  
The first one is in. The second one follows.  
  
He wants to sob, yet he can only choke.  
  
_You know the procedure. The less you struggle, the sooner we’re done.  
_  
His shoulder blades give a nasty crack as his body tries to shift away from the pain. He’s keeping still. He’s trying to. There’s no need for this. He’ll keep still. He promises.  
  
His pleading doesn’t stop the sharp metal rods from burying themselves into his thighs. He can only press out a startled cry. _Just be quiet. It’s over soon._ Gut-wrenching scraping noises resounding deep in his skull as one of them grinds against is femur on the way in. The other one doesn’t. They’re not symmetrical. How is that going to look? In the display case? Will someone notice? He feels so sick. The noises, the pain. If he vomits lying on his back, he might choke on it. Something about air.  
  
The nails in his limbs are keeping him nicely spread open, on full display. There’s no escape. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to flee. _We’re almost done. You know the procedure. Just. Hold. Still._ He is not doing anything. He swears. His hands are so jittery, he can’t move them, they move on their own volition. His legs twitch on occasion.  
  
I’m losing my patience with you.  
  
He squirms under the ruthless scrutiny, all those invisible eyes watching him. It’s over soon. They tell him. It’s over soon. He tells himself.  
  
At last - the last nail for his heart.  
  
Parting the skin, sinking in, deep, deep, deeper – into his flesh, quite unwilling to give way at first, easier after the tip had buried itself into the confines of his chest. The needle is driven in, between his ribs, again that sickening scraping of metal on bone. His heart is convulsing around the invading object – beating so hard, so loud, so fast – any second it could stop. At least it would be over soon.  
  
Breathing, breathing, in and out. Shaky, painful – harder still, his lungs are filling up with fluids, spilling over as he sputters and coughs. The world begins to vanish in a thick white blur, as the cold glass turns opaque under the fog of his own hot breath. Sealed air-tight, here is no need to breathe behind the glass. At least it would be over soon. That’s what they told him. If he just –  
  
“General?”  
  
Sephiroth spun around. Smile snapping into place, strained, oh so strained, but polite, his heart beating agonizingly fast inside its cage.  
  
“We’ve been missing your company.”  
  
He wanted to scream.  
  
“I’ll be with you in a second. I just needed some air.”

**Author's Note:**

> Am I completely happy with this? Eeehhh...  
> I do still think the idea behind it was good, but I wish I'd had some more time/energy for a better execution.  
> But, oh well. That's how it is sometimes.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and feel free to leave any kind of feedback, comments, kudos - everything is always appreciated.
> 
> I have another oneshot ready for Day 2 as well, so... 
> 
> Oh, and I also have a Twitter, @FL3ANC3, where you can scream at me about FFVII and I am glad to scream back. xD


End file.
